


halcyon days

by 0shadow_panther0



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Banter, Dialogue Heavy, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, and another page of feels, its 12 pages of byleth going 'oh no im FOND of them'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 00:08:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21234848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0shadow_panther0/pseuds/0shadow_panther0
Summary: “But,” Hilda says, “what happens when your tights get ripped? Lace is so hard to repair!”“I don’t rip them,” Byleth replies calmly.Claude raises a brow. “Ever?”“Ever.”“I dunno, Teach,” he says, with that terrible, mischievous smirk that she’s come to recognize. “Never is a pretty bold claim. I’d like to see what happens with some real stakes.”In hindsight, it was probably a mistake to challenge her students like that.





	halcyon days

**Author's Note:**

> destress fic for midterms week. somehow, its. long.

She should have seen it coming, in all honesty. The Golden Deer are always all too eager to ask questions about their professor, relevant or not, and it was only a matter of time before her wardrobe came into the equation.

“Professor,” Hilda says during a break in lecture, “why do you wear those tights?”

Byleth blinks. “...Why?” she echoes.

The girl wiggles her fingers. “They’re a bit… You know. _Impractical_.” She says the last word like she means something else, lips pursed.

Byleth looks down. Her tights are fine, she’d always thought. Her father never commented on them.

“Yeah,” Leonie pipes up. “Isn’t lace crazy expensive?”

“...I saved up for them.”

There’s a muffled snort that she doesn’t bother to track.

“They’re a reminder,” Byleth says finally. “Never let your legs get hit.”

“The legs?” Claude echoes, chin propped in his hand.

She nods. “There is nothing more important in combat than your agility,” she says. “You can outmaneuver a stronger enemy—or, if you’re smart, you can run. As soon as your legs are crippled, you lose that ability.” She walks past the tables, coat fluttering behind her. “Lose a hand, an arm—you lose the fight, but you have a chance to flee. Lose a leg—” she stops, turning to meet their eyes. “Then you lose your life.”

“But,” Hilda says, “what happens when your tights _do_ get ripped? Lace is so hard to repair!”

“I don’t rip them,” Byleth replies calmly.

Claude raises a brow. “Ever?”

“Ever.”

“I dunno, Teach,” he says, with that terrible, mischievous smirk that she’s come to recognize. “_Never_ is a pretty bold claim. I’d like to see what happens with some _real_ stakes.”

She arches a brow. “We’ve fought bandits together.”

He waves a hand. “That’s nothing for someone of your caliber. I’m more interested in how you deal with something…” He pauses, head cocking. “_Creative_.”

She narrows her eyes at him, and he beams back. “Fine,” she says finally. “Fifty extra points on the next exam to whoever can tear my tights. One attempt each.”

The whole room snaps to attention.

“Fifty points?” Hilda echoes, incredulous and hopeful in equal measure.

“Fifty,” Byleth repeats. “If you can manage it.”

—

A war cry echoes through the cathedral and Seteth jolts, nearly jumping out of his skin as Raphael barrels towards them.

Byleth takes a neat step back, foot extended to trip the student as he flies past, and Raphael hits the floor with a wheeze, skidding across the polished stone.

“I missed,” he laments, eagle spread on the floor.

“You did,” Byleth says mildly. Then, to Seteth, “When did you notice him?”

He flounders for a moment. “I—not until he yelled,” he answers finally, glancing between her and her student.

Byleth makes a contemplative noise. “Good effort,” she tells the boy. “Keep seeing Shamir about those breathing exercises. Your stealth is improving.”

He beams up at her, clambering up to his feet. “Okay, Professor!” He waves to Seteth as he leaves, jovial and good-natured as always, and the adviser can only stare blankly back.

“Seteth?” she prompts, and the man startles back to attention.

“I—” he starts, then pauses, bringing a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Explain.”

“Training exercise.”

He mouths the words back at her, brow furrowed in consternation. “I hope,” he says slowly, “that there is some practical use to this _exercise_.”

“There is,” she answers, and then promptly refuses to elaborate.

—

The next attempt is Hilda, who catches her as she’s making her way to the training grounds.

“Oh, Professor!” the girl sing-songs, bounding up to her. “Where are you off to?”

“Training grounds,” she answers promptly. “Felix asked to spar with me earlier.”

Hilda makes a face. “You’re spending an awful lot of time with him. Why doesn’t he just ask his own professor?”

“I think he’s considering a transfer,” Byleth says, “although that’s not for us to gossip about. Did you need something, Hilda?”

The girl pouts. “Not really, I just wanted to—” She cuts off with a yelp, tripping over an uneven cobblestone and tumbling down in a heap.

“Ooow—!” she gasps, cradling her ankle.

Byleth’s eyes widen, and she drops to a crouch beside the her. “Hilda—?”

She sniffles. “I think I sprained it,” she says, eyes round and pitiful. “Can you help me to the infirmary?”

“Of course,” Byleth says. “Here, take my hand—”

It’s only thanks to a lifetime of mercenary work that she spots the glint of silver. She twists her leg, Hilda’s lunge skating harmlessly off her poleyn, and the student faceplants in the dirt, thrown by her own momentum.

Byleth leans over and plucks the utensil from her hand. “A fork?” she says, with a hint of disapproval.

Hilda pouts. “It _almost_ worked,” she says. “You totally fell for it.”

Byleth clicks her tongue. “Did you actually hurt yourself when you fell?”

There’s a beat of silence. “Yeah,” comes the response, bashful. “A bit, actually.”

She sighs, patient but longsuffering. “Let’s get you to Manuela.”

—

Lorenz, the very picture of propriety, simply informs her that when his attempt will take place when they next spar.

“I will complete this challenge fair and square,” he says, tossing his hair. “Nobles have no need for petty schemes and tricks.” The comment, pitched noticeably louder, makes Claude snort.

And, true to his word, Lorenz meets her at the training grounds, twirling his practice lance with a flourish.

“Professor,” he greets, and Byleth nods as she grabs a wooden sword from the weapons rack.

“Ready?” she asks without preamble.

“Of course,” Lorenz says. “Prepare yourself! Even if you are my professor, you will be facing the full force of my strength!”

Her mouth twitches in the barest hint of a smile, and she levels her blade. “Let’s see it, then.”

What follows next is less a spar and more an exercise in his pain tolerance.

“Not a bad plan,” she remarks later, when he’s wheezing and lying on the ground. “Straightforwardness is not necessarily a bad thing. However—” she steps around him, setting her sword back on the rack— “you failed to take into account the skill difference.”

He groans. “How humiliating,” he mumbles, draping his arm over his face. “I was unable to land even a single blow.”

“Of course not,” she says simply. “I have years of practical experience. You do not.” She offers him her hand. “That’s why I’m teaching you.”

He looks up at her, brow furrowed.

“...Of course,” he concedes, taking her hand, and she hauls him back up to his feet.

Lorenz dusts himself off with as much dignity as he can muster. “Thank you, Professor,” he says with a bow. “This has been an enlightening experience.”

—

She catches Lysithea in the library, surrounded by a veritable fort of stacked books.

“Hard at work, I see,” Byleth comments, peering down the spines. They’re all dense, academic texts, mostly pertaining to magic and spell experimentation.

“Of course,” comes the reply, a bit short. “Can I help you, Professor?”

She’s not surprised by the girl’s annoyance—out of all her students, Lysithea hates being disrupted the most.

“I apologize for the interruption,” Byleth says placidly. “I just wanted to ask if you intend to participate in the challenge like the rest of your classmates.”

Lysithea sniffs. “Professor, when have I ever gotten less than full marks?” she says. “I hardly need the extra points. I don’t have enough time to waste it on something like this.”

Byleth arches a brow. “So,” she says, “I don’t have to worry about taking an experimental wind spell to my knees in the near future?”

Lysithea abruptly turns pink and sputters. “I—you—?”

She huffs a soft laugh, patting the girl’s shoulder. “Annette told me,” she says. “She was concerned that you might hurt yourself if you practiced magic unsupervised.”

Lysithea covers her face with her hands. “Unbelievable,” she mutters, muffled by her palms.

—

Ignatz scurries up to her before dinner, looking anxious.

“Professor,” he squeaks, then clears his throat. “I—ah—I know that Seteth asked you to look into some of the rumors that were circulating, and I think I saw something—”

She blinks, then straightens. “Where?” she asks.

He winces at the chill in her voice and hesitates for a moment, as if reconsidering.

“Ignatz?” she prompts.

“Ah—over by the greenhouse,” he says, scrambling to lead.

She follows him down the stairs, taking note of how skittish the student is. He keeps peering back at her before hastily turning around, eyes scanning the ground in front of them.

“Is something wrong?” she asks, and the way he flinches is a dead giveaway.

“N-no,” he manages, very obviously lying.

There’s no harm in seeing this through, though, so she plays along, following him past the pond to the far end of the greenhouse.

“Ah—it’s just past here,” he says, leading her down the alley between the dorms and the glasshouse. His gait falters for a moment, seemingly stumbling over himself, and she stops, eyes at his feet.

“A tripwire,” she observes, and Ignatz freezes guiltily. It’s strung between one of the columns and the wall at about ankle-height, perfect for prompting a tumble—he had stepped over it. “Why here?”

He shuffles his feet. “Not a lot of people come here, and I didn’t want to get anyone by accident,” he says. “I set it up in the shade so it wouldn’t catch the sunlight.”

She hums approvingly, pressing against the wire with the toe of her boot. It’s sturdy and taut, cleverly placed to avoid the glare. Had she been paying the slightest bit less attention, she would have missed it completely. “Trickier than what I expected from you,” she admits.

She turns her eyes back to meet his, re-evaluating. She’d been focusing on his skill with the bow and quick reflexes, but if he’s this crafty, perhaps a few lessons in swordsmanship would help round out his skillset. Perhaps pairing him with Claude during practicals would help with his acting.

He laughs self-consciously. “Not quite tricky enough, though.”

“You’ll improve,” she says. “Certainly not the worst plan. With a little adjustment to the execution, it could have worked.” She pauses, studying his slouched shoulders. “Good job,” she offers.

It’s worth it for the way he brightens.

—

Leonie is next, in a fashion.

Her father’s apprentice had been asking her to spar regularly, always out in the forests surrounding the monastery.

“It’s more like a real battlefield,” Leonie had said, stretching her arms out in the morning sun like a basking cat. “It’s more practical this way, isn’t it?”

Byleth couldn’t fault her logic, so she obliged the student’s requests, and spent several mornings sparring with her. Leonie showed a unique intensity and eagerness to improve, matched only by perhaps Felix.

It’s another such morning, and Byleth meets Leonie in the forest clearing. The girl is twirling a lance, running through warmup drills.

“Mornin’, Professor!” she chirps, wiping the line of sweat that trails down her brow. “Ready to get started?”

Byleth nods, unsheathing the practice sword belted at her hip as Leonie readies her lance.

Leonie lunges, quick and sudden, lance aimed in a straight thrust at her torso, then another as Byleth sidesteps to dodge.

The sudden burst of aggression is enough to throw her off for a moment, taking a step back as she adjusts to the pace.

Leonie rains blows on her, lance whipping through the air. She doesn’t seem so much as trying to win so much as just keeping her opponent on the defensive, forcing them around the clearing like she’s trying to corral them—

Ah. So _that’s_ the game she’s playing.

A glance around confirms her suspicions. There’s a patch on the ground covered more densely with leaves, about ten steps back, and she connects the dots quickly.

Leonie shouts, rushing forward, and Byleth ducks into a crouch, letting the momentum carry her opponent closer before she retaliates. She catches the stock of the lance with her off hand and wrenches it back. Leonie takes a step back, bracing against the pull, and Byleth lashes her leg out in a low sweep, kicking the student’s legs out from under her.

The girl goes sprawling with a yelp, losing her grip on her weapon, and Byleth tosses the lance away. It lands with a soft _pat_ onto the leaf-littered ground—

And promptly disappears as it falls into the well-hidden pit.

Leonie looks up at her, aghast. “You _knew_?”

“You gave away your intentions,” Byleth tells her. “You were too eager. I could something was off compared to our other sessions.”

Leonie lets out a frustrated huff. “I was so _close_,” she says.

“You were,” Byleth agrees. ”But you’re not quite there.” A tiny smile quirks the corner of her mouth. “Besides—you forgot that Jeralt trained me as well.”

—

“How is Dorte?” Byleth asks.

Marianne jolts, freezing mid-brush. “H-hello, Professor.”

The horse nickers, and Marianne finishes the stroke, running the brush through its mane. “Dorte is well, thank you,” she says.

Byleth pauses. “And you, Marianne?” she says.

“I am… also fine,” the girl says quietly. She retrieves a handful of sugar cubes from her pocket, offering up to the horse, who laps it up. “Ah—Professor? Would you mind coming on a ride with me?” She fidgets. “I’d like to take Dorte out, but I don’t really want to leave the monastery by myself…”

“Of course,” Byleth says, pleasantly surprised. “Here, let me get the saddles.”

She grabs the leathers from around the stables, Marianne silently finishing up the last tangle in Dorte’s mane.

The mare she saddles, a docile, dove-gray horse with a gentle temperament, paws at the ground, and Byleth guides it out of the stall with a click of her tongue.

She hoists herself onto the saddle, settling in comfortably. She hasn’t had time to ride much since coming to the monastery, but the motions return effortlessly—years of travelling with her father had pretty much necessitated some level of horsemanship.

Marianne mirrors her, carefully adjusting her skirts, and they kick off at a trot, Byleth waving at the gatekeeper as they leave through the main gates.

Marianne handles her horse with easy grace, a far cry from the stumbling, awkward girl she is on the ground, and she takes the lead, urging Dorte into an easy canter as they reach the road. Byleth matches her pace, her mare whinnying as it stretches its legs.

The student glances back, tapping her heels against Dorte’s flanks. The horse’s tail swishes gleefully, and it lunges into a gallop, flying across the beaten path.

Byleth feels the corners of her mouth curl up, and she whistles sharply. Her horse springs into a sprint, following after Dorte in their impromptu race.

They press on down the road, startling a passing merchant, clouds of dust streaming behind them.

Abruptly, Marianne snaps the reins, and Dorte rears back, whirling around and taking off back towards the monastery in a blink. There’s a light laugh, almost lost to the wind, and Byleth breathes a laugh as she slows to turn.

By the time the two of them make it back, they’re both fully disheveled and the horses are exhausted but content, and they slide off the saddles to finish off the ride at a slow walk back to the stables.

They hand off the horses to the stableboy for a solid brushing down, and Byleth notices a bright gleam in Marianne’s eyes that she’s never seen before, her cheeks rosy and hair in disarray.

“That was bold of you,” Byleth remarks, a little breathless. She stretches, leaning against the wall to extend her legs.

Marianne flushes, ducking her head. “I thought it would be… nice,” she says. “And I was hoping that the saddle would…” She trails off, inaudible.

“It would…?” Byleth prompts.

“Chafe,” Marianne squeaks. “And your tights would tear.”

It’s so unexpected that she can’t stop the puff of laughter that escapes her, and Marianne looks up, wide-eyed.

“A good strategy,” she says. “I did live as a travelling mercenary, though. I know how to take care of myself on a horse.”

“A-ah,” the girl says, averting her eyes again.

Byleth pauses. “I did like going out to ride with you,” she says, gentle. “I can come with you more often, if you’d like.”

There’s a long beat of silence. “I would—“ Marianne starts, then hesitates. “...I would like that.”

—

“Claude hasn’t tried yet, hasn’t he,” Hilda comments over tea. “I’m kinda surprised. I thought something like this would be right up his alley.”

Byleth hums, taking a slow sip from her cup. “He’s biding his time,” she says. “Either he’s waiting to put his plan in motion, or he’s still cooking up something.”

“You think he might poison your tea?” Hilda muses. “I think he’s trying out a new recipe for a ‘stomach troubles’ brew.”

“I don’t know how giving me a stomachache will help him win the challenge.”

The student makes a face. “I didn’t say it would be part of his _plan_. Just that he _might_.”

Byleth snorts despite herself. “I would hope he knows better than to try that on me.”

Hilda snickers, propping her chin in her palm. She observes her teacher for a long moment. “You know, Professor,” she says thoughtfully, “I think you’ve really changed.”

She blinks, looking up. “Changed?”

“Yeah, of course! You’re way more expressive now.” Hilda leans back, hands on the sides of her seat. “Before you were so cold and stiff. It was kinda scary, actually. But now it’s like you’re… I don’t know. Happier?”

Byleth hesitates. “I… suppose I am,” she says slowly. “I haven’t really considered it.”

“It shows! You’ve really opened up. Nobody’s afraid of you anymore, at least.”

She huffs softly. “I think it’s impossible to stay stone-faced around a group like you.”

Hilda beams.

—

Claude sighs dramatically, sliding into the seat across from her in the dining hall.

“Y’know, Teach,” he says, leaning on the table, “you might really have me stumped with this one.”

Byleth raises a brow. “How so?”

“Trying to outwit you seems impossible,” he bemoans. “A tripwire seemed like a good idea, but that’s a trick that only really works once, if it works at all. Facing you head on is just a sore ego waiting to happen, and, honestly, you’re far too clever to fall for any petty pranks. Now, obviously you wouldn’t offer so much extra credit if you weren’t confident in your abilities, but this just seems absurd.”

She takes a slow sip of her tea. “Flattery will get you nowhere,” she says dryly.

He laughs, bright and warm. “It’s not flattery if it’s the truth.”

She makes a noncommittal noise, and he laughs again.

“Anyway,” he says, spreading his arms, “this is me dropping out of the race.”

“Really,” she says, doubt clear in her voice.

He shrugs helplessly. “I’ll be frank, Teach—I’ve been losing sleep over this, and I still can’t find anything that has anything more than a fifty-fifty success rate, and I’m not one to leave things up to a coin toss.”

“Wise of you,” she murmurs, and Claude winks back at her with a crooked grin.

“Now, if you’d like to give me a few points of extra credit for ‘knowing my limits,’ I wouldn’t say no—”

“Perhaps,” she says, and he pauses, like he hadn’t expected her to give him that much. “Wait until class tomorrow.”

“Leaving me hanging, are you?” he says dramatically

“Some suspense will do you good, I think,” she replies dryly.

His laugh rings clear and light. “I’m practically _quivering_ with anticipation.”

—

There’s a low, excited buzz when she steps into the classroom, and the students quiet instantly, eyes wide and expectant. Apparently Claude had spread the news.

“As you may know,” Byleth begins, “everyone has made their attempt. And as you can see—” in an sudden show of dramatics, she lifts her arms and twirls— “nobody succeeded.”

There’s a chorus of defeated sighs, and she restrains a smile. “Before the main announcement, I would like to ask—what did you learn from this experience?”

“That you guard your legs _very_ well,” Claude says cheekily, and she waves him off.

“Anyone else?” she prompts. “Preferably someone who actually made an attempt.”

“Evaluate your opponent properly,” Lorenz presents, and Marianne nods sagely.

“Don’t divulge your plans to chatterboxes,” Lysithea says sourly.

“Execution is just as important as planning,” Ignatz pipes up from the back.

“Which means don’t give away your intentions,” Leonie adds.

Byleth nods approvingly. “It seems most of you got something out of this,” she says. “Thus, I am extending the challenge indefinitely.”

Claude’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “All this _after_ I admitted defeat?”

“Everyone got reasonably close,” she says, “and you’ve only known me for a few months. I can only imagine that you’ll continue to improve the longer we’re together.” She lets a tiny smile quirk the corners of her mouth. “Once that happens, I’ll know I’ve done my job right.”

Hilda snickers. “I bet Seteth won’t be too happy about this,” she says, and Raphael lets out a loud, full-bellied laugh in response.

“Shall I add an extra clause, then?” Byleth says thoughtfully. “If they other professors or houses find out, then the challenge ends. Otherwise,” she spreads her arms, as if inviting them, “you have until you graduate.” She grinning fully, now. “Do your best.”

—

They don’t get the chance. The Imperial army storms the monastery. It falls.

So does Byleth.

—

She’s exhausted. River water drips from her hair, her coat heavy and wet, but she doesn’t stop running. The monastery is so close—

Five years. She had missed five years. Her students are waiting for her.

Byleth slows when she reaches the staircase, her breath leaving her in shaky pants. It’s deathly quiet—abandoned for years, it looks like.

Something in her chest hurts.

She makes her way up the steps, slow, cautious. Her boots are loud against the stone, the chill aching deep in her bones.

For all the silence, there’s someone waiting at the top, staring out to the horizon. He’s dressed in soft, warm creams, highlighted with bright gold and rich navy, his hair dark and tousled. Familiar, somehow,

The man turns to face her, and his eyes widen.

“Teach,” he breathes, and everything clicks.

“...Claude,” she manages. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

A puff of laughter escapes him, tiny and disbelieving, and he reaches for her like she might vanish in the next moment.

“You’re here,” he murmurs. He brushes her dripping hair from her face, soft and painfully gentle. “I knew you’d come back.”

His eyes flicker down, taking in the whole of her, and he stops, staring—

He huffs. “Of course,” he says. “Five years of the Goddess knows what, and your tights are still in perfect condition. I’m beginning to think the game was rigged from the start.” He shakes his head. “It’s like… it’s like you haven’t changed a bit.” His smile is distant. Wistful, perhaps.

“...The others?” she asks when her voice returns to her.

Claude’s expression turns rueful. “I’m the only one, so far,” he says. He turns his gaze back to the horizon, where the sun peeks over the hills. “The day’s still young, though. Let’s give them some time.”

He offers her his hand. “Come on,” he says. “I can think of some things to do while we wait. We should get you dried off first.”

She takes it, and a surprised noise escapes her as he pulls her in for a hug, heedless of her soaked clothes.

“I missed you, Teach,” he says. His arms are tight around her, his mouth pressed against the crown of her head.

He’s shaking, she notices. Then, more distantly—he’s warm.

“...I’m here,” she says finally. “I’m here.”


End file.
